


Hung Up

by Edwardina



Series: The Colferstreet Sexting 'Verse [3]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Begging, Community: kink_bingo, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mirrors, PWP, Pictures, Sexting, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Kinda Busy</i> and <i>Chase Me</i>.  Now that Chord is returning to the show, Chris thinks it might be time to back off sexting.  Chord has no such thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hung Up

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Chord is still dating Emma Roberts in this; if you've read the first two, you know wassup.
> 
> Written for [kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) amnesty, just as the first two were. I managed a bingo for the first time!! My squares were "mirrors/doubles," "teasing," "pictures," and "begging," and for my middle free square, "phone sex" is the obvious heart and soul of the 'verse.
> 
> To Kate, wind beneath my wings, for the eyes and the hugs and the julyfish!

There's a door.

It's the only option. The only exit. The one possible way to go. 

Just for good measure, also: everything's on fire and it's only a matter of time before the whole place starts falling apart and buries everything else in its rubble.

But Chris isn't moving towards the door at all, even though he knows he should.

In his mind, he can feel himself standing before it, smoke flooding around his feet. He can make the door out perfectly, a beckoning light beyond it shining, slipping through the cracks at the jamb to encircle his way out. His mind's eye is hazy, though; the smoke.

He knows he needs to move. He needs to run through that door right now, before it's too late. It's right in front of him. It's not far away or hard to get to.

But he's rooted to the spot. He knows he won't move. He doesn't want to even open the door. He doesn't want a way out. For some death-wishy reason, he's willing to burn.

 

*

 

Chris comes up with the whole metaphor in the shower. That's where ideas really tend to hit. He's heard it happens to scientists all the time. The forefront of their mind gets just occupied enough with a mundane task that the rest of it roams free, and then it's all, _hey, prefrontal cortex, solved this equation for you!_ Chris's mind is more fantastical and devious and drama-loving than scientific, and his obsessions are less than noble these days, but the eureka effect happens to him, too. So naturally while he's washing his hair, his mind serves him up some truly overdramatic reconstructions of his current fixation.

To be fair, Chord Overstreet coming back to _Glee_ isn't some huge life or death thing. He does know that, of course. It's just that Chris is so totally stuck. And so, so frustrated with himself, honestly. He took this path by choice and should've known better.

He does know better.

That's the thing! He's not a complete idiot! Of course he shouldn't have started it. Or let it keep going. And of course he should put an end to it right now.

Logically, the reasons to quit texting with Chord outweigh the reasons to keep going. It's so risky – something that could wreck his career, and Chord's, if it ever got out somehow; it's skeevy that either of them would engage in this kind of stuff behind Chord's girlfriend's back, let alone repeatedly; and it's obviously going to be a mess at work. It's been weird for a couple of weeks now, and Chord hasn't even technically had his first day back yet. It's been too weird for them to actually text words to each other, even.

At this point, the channel of communication between them would easily wither and die on its own. Death by natural causes. Without that safe distance, and without encouragement or invitation, Chord would probably just as soon forget about it. It's not like they're having some kind of fling. They're not even actually getting laid, let alone caught in a romantic entanglement. They're only just kind of friends, since outside of _Glee_ and its social circle, they don't have too much in common. There is no happy ending in which Chord has some kind of lifestyle-changing epiphany or does a personality one-eighty and they wind up in a showmance for the ages and adopt a bunch of kids together. It is what it is. Chris could essentially stop it right at that very second just by deleting Chord from his phone's contacts. Remove that temptation to engage. Simple! Not doing that is just asking for trouble. It's begging for everything to explode in his face. 

So: Why? Why is he not doing exactly that? Why is he so unwilling to give up this strange, potentially damaging, dead end of something that is hardly even a friendship? Why is he intentionally continuing to be an idiot? Is it even worth it?

Prefrontal cortex says no, moron, it's not worth it. But his libido is all for it.

Damn shower. He clambers out of it.

"Hey, idiot," he says venomously to his blotchy, shower-reddened self in the steamed-up mirror, tucking his towel around his waist. "It's not worth it. You know it's not. Just XTube some porn. Okay, I need to get a cat already, because I look insane talking to myself."

He lathers up to shave, but as soon as he's rubbing the smooth cream in meditative circles over one cheek, his mind is already wandering away dangerously.

Letting it all go is so much harder than it seems.

Just looking in his own bathroom mirror reminds him of Chord, calling up weird emotional echoes he can't help. Chord stood in front of his mirror and sent pictures to Chris. As tame and MySpace-nostalgia-inducing as they are, just like everything else with Chord, the pics are also insanely hot. Not just because Chord is shirtless and has a pretty great body, but because he purposefully took the pictures and sent them to Chris, knowing Chris was going to look at him sans protective buddy goggles.

He really has to delete those pictures, Chris realizes.

Ignoring his own logic, the rest of him just lifts up into a hazy state of arousal, his mind unfettered and his sore muscles relieved from the hot shower.

He's never been a fan of shaving. Something about the leaning and the ogling himself making a weird face just isn't appealing, but of course, nor is his facial hair, so it's a part of his post-shower routine regardless of what the next day holds. But with his mind circling Chord and the fact that he'll be in the same old rehearsal studio along with Chris and most of the cast, the whole process is over with too quick and sudden, one tiny nick beading dark red. Chris blots it distractedly.

Oh my God, what the fuck is wrong with him? Seriously. He's got to do something about this. It might have been wrong but otherwise harmless before, but it's getting real now – too real, overlapping too much with Chris's reality. It's smoke. It's fire. People are going to notice, right? Someone's going to notice something isn't how it should be.

With damp hair too thick and unwilling to stay pushed back from his forehead, Chris tries to shake it out of his eye as he tugs his underwear drawer open and gropes for boxers from the tidy line-up in his drawer. Everything's in its place, fairly neat and very organized. He hasn't lived in his house all that long, but also, that's how he likes it. No distracting messes, no extra things to clutter up his plenty-cluttered brain. Everything under his control.

That's right. Chris is in control of this whole thing.

He tugs on underwear, an old _RENT_ t-shirt, and pajama pants, then grabs his phone off the dresser and flips through it till he finds Chord's pictures. He doesn't even register collapsing onto his bed. His thumb already knows exactly how to pull them up without thought. He does it almost every day.

There are a few weeks' worth of photos, and Chris scrolls back through them, trying to be dispassionate. They've sent each other pictures every day for the last month, if not longer.

Some days were documented pretty thoroughly, especially by Chord.

But honestly, they're mostly snapshots of food. Or drinks. With the exception of the two mirror pictures, Chord himself is hardly in any of them – just hands or feet sometimes, or an animal in his arm. It's just a pile-up of random meals, places, signs, things on the ground. It looks like a long, boring scrapbook, even less exciting than vacation photos that no one in their right mind would really be interested in, especially without text attached or put through a filter with "Instagram" stamped above it.

Chris knows that to anyone else's eyes they're just smatterings of pixels that don't mean anything other than "someone's steak." They're not like that to him. It's basically the opposite. Well, admittedly, the pictures do say something like, "Here's some messy, messy barbeque chicken I'm eating. Sauce everywhere. Check out all the used napkins," but under the surface, they also tell Chris, _And I thought of u and wanted to tell u._

They're all little pieces of the life Chord was living independent of _Glee_ 's juggernaut of a schedule, and every single one of them involved Chord thinking of Chris and, in return, Chris thinking of Chord.

Each time Chris had gotten a picture, he'd paused in whatever he was doing and studied it for a few moments and thought something like, _So Chord's working on his tunes again today_ , if it was an image of the studio's masterboard lit up with the levels of music Chris couldn't hear. A plate laid out with sushi, a girl's hand just visible in one corner around the stem of a glass of ice water, her nails bright red. _Girlfriend? Sister? Friend? Hard to tell._ A plane wing razing over fluffy white clouds. _Where's he going?_ A family photo hanging on a wall, half blurred by the flash in the glass of the frame, but an identifiable towhead in a rumpled Christmas sweatshirt looking at the cameras capturing him in the exact same way Chord looks now, smile tugged up crooked on one side. _Oh, he's in Nashville again! It's already dinnertime for him. I bet I'll get another picture when he eats._

Chris had, of course, replied in kind, with the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock reflecting his 6:30 a.m. call time (a picture that wordlessly stated, "Ugh, it's early and I kinda want to die"); the gloomy treadmill where he paid his dues ("You're not the only one hitting the gym, bud"); the moment he'd turned on his car and his Sirius station had been playing "Lucky" and he'd instantly been flooded with tour memories of watching the duet from backstage and couldn't help but snap the song title as it scrolled by ("OMG, I just got nostalgia suckerpunched"); kids climbing on bales of hay at the pumpkin patch where he and Ashley picked out overpriced pumpkins to carve ("Halloween! Yay!!").

All innocuous. Family-friendly. Perfectly tweetable. They're so harmless, he could leave them. No one would suspect anything, unless they wanted to read into the sheer amount of them – but come on, this is the digital age.

One by one, heart beating so hard he can feel it in the crooks of his elbows, Chris gets rid of them. Chord's. His. All of them. Ruthlessly.

A plate of eggs benedict: delete. A random intersection in Studio City: delete. Some picnic spread, the legs of friends visible around the food: delete. A dog wearing sunglasses by a pool: delete. A _Cowboys & Aliens_ movie poster: delete.

Chris also has the last stretch of actual texts they exchanged, going on and on about monkeys like a rejected _All That_ sketch. Delete, delete, deletedeletedelete...

And the real offenders – which, yeah. He still has. Even though he takes this phone to work with him and has become accustomed to a ghastly pall of paranoia coming over him about its location at any given second due to the ticking time bomb of sexts just waiting to be found, locked screen or no.

_i am kinda a tease_

_like u said_

_i do want u to want my dick_

_ia m obsessed like u said_

God, delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

The whole operation takes several minutes of dedicated willpower, and it stings a little when there's nothing left and Chord's message window disappears automatically. Before last time, Chris hadn't allowed himself to keep a single text, and now all of the exchanges they've had are spotty in his mind, some things gone forever but some things carved into his sexual psyche for life. But it's for the best that he cover his tracks and not hang on any of this. Totally. It's the first step.

Trudging towards his bed, he scrolls his way to Chord's name in his contacts list and opens up a new text message.

After a pause, he types: _So how do you want this to go, Chord?_

As he sends it off, there's a vague knot of anxiety gathering in his stomach when he realizes Chord could text back something that officially puts an end to the whole weird affair (if that's even the word for it).

At least now the door's open.

 

*

 

Chris wakes up with sticky eyes and a grunt of indignation at his alarm, switching it off in the nearly pitch-black of his room. It's definitely still dark outside, which makes it feel like the middle of the night – absolutely the most offensive time to be dragging himself up out of bed. He doesn't even remember falling asleep, but he's forcing himself off the mattress before he can bother to think, or worse, drift off again in the quiet.

He's checking his phone for messages before he even recalls having sent one to Chord. There's a few from others, but there's an entire frigging sonnet of awkward from Chord.

_What?_

_What to go, sorry._

_OMG it's so early! Forgot about this part_

_I'm too early, no one's here. Literally just me!!_

_I think I got the wrong call time lol_

_Got too excited, hahaha_

_Could run a muck in the studio, think I should???_

_Nevermind :) Just had an extra fitting for my suit #006am #likeaboss_

_Do you mean, today?_

_We should play it cool, right?_

_Just like normal!_

Chris wakes up further, mind snapping to attention.

 _Right, I meant today_ , he shoots back. _We should play it cool, boy, real cool. We should just be our usual professional selves._

Wow, is he ever not coherent yet.

Chris is buttoning his jeans when his Blackberry buzzes atop his mattress.

_Ok, that's what I thought_

_I take it that completely went without saying?_ Chris returns, inwardly rolling his eyes at himself.

 _We didn't say anything_ , Chord replies, so quickly that Chris knows he's probably standing around somewhere on the Paramount lot with his iPhone in his hands right that second. It's actually reassuring – both the words and knowing Chord is paying attention rather than avoiding everything for some we-suddenly-work-together-again reason. The grip of nerves that had flared up and gotten into his belly loosens in the rush of warmth. He realizes at once that his body was tight and on edge all night long, keyed up about all this. Chris tilts his head hard to the left to stretch out his neck, admiring the response. It's a little off-kilter and Chord to a tee.

 _I've just been a little nervous to be around you_ , Chris confesses.

_Why!?? No, don't be nervous! I'm a nice guy_

_Yes, very nice. ;) You won't feel weird around me, then?_

_I dont think so. Why would u even ask?_

_Because of everything. I know you know what I mean. I need to know what page you're on._

_U seem like u know more than me, what page anything is on_

_See, my psychic abilities came with this weird clause where I'm only allowed to read one mind per day. And I already read my goldfish's... hence the asking._

_Ok then, I take it back. If u want to know, just ask_

Chris fumbles with locking his door, then pauses on his porch. Dawn isn't even glimmering on the horizon yet. He blinks out at the half-darkened city. Apparently he'd been so preoccupied with the conversation he hadn't paid attention to getting ready, gathering up his stuff, and getting out the door; his brain had done it all for him on autopilot, like the eureka effect in reverse.

 _My turn to question u! I have to know, what do goldfish think about?_ Chord asks.

_My goldfish watch a lot of CNN, so it can get pretty political in that tank._

 

*

 

Chris can remember the feeling he had, just a few months ago, of dangling in an uncertain suspense the night before the concert movie premiere, not knowing what to expect from seeing this guy face-to-face again.

Would Chord see him and retreat, mind changed in the harsh reality of all those flash bulbs going off? Would he have Emma with him on the red carpet, smiling for the photographers and sign-bearing fans? Would they even speak, the two of them, after what they'd been doing?

At the premiere, Chris had broken from his place at the sight of Chord and given him a brief hug. It was a moment he'd been both dreading and wanting and it passed in the blink of an eye. It had been no big deal, the fifteen seconds of standing together as ex-castmates, segregated by the crowd and flashbulbs from being anything else at all.

Now the unknowns are different, even though the suspense that made Chris wake up having slept remarkably tensely is the same. It's been lingering in him like a hangover for the past couple of weeks as details have trickled to him about Chord's deal and the circumstances of his character's return. He knows Chord won't blanch at the sight of him. He knows Emma won't be there – just the same group of people he films with most of the time. And he knows they'll probably speak at some point. It's fundamentally unfair that Chord's return involves him getting next to naked, just as his first episode with Chris had, but they survived that awkwardness somehow and it had all seemed to stack up for the best. He's done all he can do to mentally prepare, including delete all those pictures and texts he'd been keeping and check in with Chord.

Still, instead of mere few days, it's now been months and a lot more orgasms since he's seen Chord in person, and as he walks into the dance studio, Chris realizes that all the mental preparation in the world couldn't have helped him out.

Chord's standing there in black Adidas basketball shorts, and Chris's deviant brain flies immediately, just immediately, to the mingled memory and mental picture of words on a screen and images filed away in his hungry mind.

 _black basketball shorts. commando_ ; dick forcing the stretchy mesh fabric up in an obvious tent.

Chris has a pulmonary embolism. Just a little one. Right then and there.

He smiles, the instinct to cover up his inner meltdown vast and deep, and walks robotically toward the throng of people visiting in the middle of the rehearsal space. Zach's there, hands happily tucked, grinning; the jazz guys filling out the number are amongst the usuals. Some of the girls are in a different number entirely. Jenna, Harry, and Damian are the only members of their group already there.

Some things are familiar, like the more rounded muscles Chord had developed toward the end of the second season, which Chris has imagined plenty of times the past few months. Chord's t-shirt is one he wore in dance rehearsals last year, and on tour, slept in on the plane. But his hair is better than it's ever been, and definitely blond again, but dyed in a far more natural fashion than Chris has seen so far. Its short cut is more flattering than Chris could have guessed from those little exhibitionist mirror pictures. He looks great, and when he sees Chris coming towards him, he grins, does a weird triple-take that makes it obvious he's not sure where to look, and comes blundering over, even though he's in the middle of everything.

"Hey, stranger," Chris says, super-friendly and detached at the same time.

He gets hugged instead of helloed, one-armed and warm, and Chris awkwardly pats his back twice, smiling with extreme serenity at anyone who looks his way.

"Nice to see you in here again," he says, backing off as soon as possible. Chord seems to come with him somehow, though, arm stretched around him.

"I missed you, Chris!" says Chord loudly.

Chris's mind fumbles the pass completely; is that an act? Is that for real? Is that for everyone else's ears, or his?

"Oh, I missed you, too," he hears himself say, in the cooing voice he usually reserves for schmoozing. It's so fake. Everything is so weird. Why won't Chord let him go?

"Yeah, get your lovefest in while you can. I'm about to kill you all," Zach is saying, in his factually threatening way. "But especially you, Chord."

"I know, I'm totally out of shape," Chord says, fingers gripping at Chris's tense shoulder. He's not hugging Chris anymore, exactly, just hanging onto his shoulder, and – oh, right. Chord used to reach out and squeeze his shoulder, trying to be all buddy-buddy, all the time during "Don't Stop Believin'," so it's not weird. Chris crosses his arms over his awkwardly rising chest and looks at everyone like he's paying an inordinate amount of attention to the casual hub-bub and it could not be a more normal, boring day for him.

"Your body roll will be the easiest thing you do," Zach says with grim cheer. "I still can't believe I'm giving the hardest choreography to such a rag-tag group. It's like doing _The Glee Project_ all over again."

"You're freakin' me out, Zach, to be perfectly honest!" Damian says. "Don't take me back there."

Zach giggles. "Chord and Damian, I might make you guys cry."

"Oh, I think we'll all be crying by the end of the day," mutters Chris. Chord squeezes his tense shoulder, sending a flash of hurts-so-good pain up his neck.

"Blood on the dance floor," Harry's saying.

"Panic at the disco, literally?" Chord asks.

"Nobody slip in the inevitable blood, sweat, and tears," Zach says.

"Well, I'm excited," says Jenna.

"Heeey! I know that guy!" calls a merry voice from the door; Dianna chimes in "Chordyyyy," over Darren. Chris automatically steps away, and this time, Chord lets him go so he can be swept up in the tide of attention.

"I need to stretch," he comments to no one in particular, casual, and banishes himself to the corner.

 

*

 

_Fun!!!!_

That's the text Chris gets from Chord at 1:36 a.m., just past the very end of their extremely long work day.

 _I'm surprised you're awake!_ he answers.

_ur awake too_

_Yes, but I've been giving myself nightmares with this screenplay I'm working on, so sleep can be elusive, and I'm used to the rigors of choreography. You, on the other hand, ought to be dead. Or at least in bed._

_I am. so tired!! bout to drop like a rock. just Wanted to talk to u_

_Oh, really?_ Chris taps out, pleased in spite of himself.

_yeah, but do u wanna talk to me though?_

God, that's complicated. Of course Chris wants to; they haven't really talked in a few weeks outside of sending pictures. But he shouldn't. He shouldn't take one step down this path. He shouldn't keep Chord from getting his well-earned rest. He shouldn't be feeling so smug that Chord's texting him and not Harry or Darren or Emma. He tries to reply with some restraint.

_Sure :)_

Talking. Just talking. Because they're friends.

_i remember now, why i thought u didn't like me, before_

_Ah, so you overheard me grousing about your good looks again, eh?_

_must have missed that! talk louder next time!_ Another text hurries onto the screen, bumping the joke up. _u just stared at the floor w ur arms crossed, u hardly even looked at me all day!_

Chris frowns, feeling vaguely guilty because he knows that's true. He'd wound up with a headache from the look of concentration he'd kept on his face and the tension in his shoulders and neck, and Zach had told him outright that he looked constipated. But what else was he supposed to do? Especially with Chord in those shorts. God, he's still provoked in all kinds of ways about catching glimpses of them out of the corner of his eye.

_I didn't want to stare or for anyone to get ideas._

_what kind of ideas do u think they'd get?_

_This is a totally unfair line of questioning_ , Chris complains, batting away the desire to flush with automatic indignation. _I'm playing it cool, remember? If I stare at you all moon-eyed, people are going to notice and think I have a crush on you. No one will think twice about you, so you have the luxury of doing whatever you want._

 _mon eyed?_ Chord echoes. Chris knows what he means. He's not about to harp on a typo or pursue his point any further. Honestly, Chord probably can't relate, and Chris knows that, and it'd be unfair for him to hold a grudge against Chord for not being able to relate. After a minute, a little corrective _moon_ appears under the tired typo.

 _Go to bed_ , Chris tells him, huffing in fond, reluctant amusement at the belated correction.

_u forget i am in bed_

_What are you waiting for? Sleep!_

_i will but jus ttalk to me a lil til i sleep, u can send me off to dream land right_

_If by that you mean I'll bore you to sleep, I'm so flattered. Perhaps you'd like to hear some fun historical facts._

_no not that!!!_ replies Chord shamelessly. _tell me bout ur crush on me. help me sleep good_

 _I do not have a crush on you_ , Chris tells him, slightly pained. _Egomaniac._

_just teasing_

Oh, right. Chord is the biggest tease, except for the fact that he seems to like to take it even more than he likes to dish it out, doing the text message equivalent of everything from elbow-jabbing to rubbing along Chris's leg in effort to get a petting.

Another message pops up before Chris can decide whether to be contrite or simply tell him to go to sleep.

_u do like me right? not like a crush, just normal_

Chris nervously taps at his phone's tiny keyboard, first typing "Of course I do" and then backspacing it to type, "Oops. Are you jealous of the floor for getting all my attention?"

It doesn't feel like the right response – before, he would've said something like, "Duh, tease" – but the fact that he's going to see Chord face-to-face again tomorrow makes it somehow difficult to be that upfront, and he doesn't want to flirt outright. He doesn't have the safety net of the two of them occupying separate bubbles anymore.

Before he can finish the sentence, he starts backspacing again, and Chord continues.

_sorry! im so soo tired, but i got a third wind on the way home. cant sleep yet. so im asking stupid questions to you instead. but ill stop. u already said, u were playing it cool. goodnight!!!_

_G'night!_ Chris types quickly, realizing a moment too late that Chord was actually trying to flirt with him. 

He was, wasn't he?

It wasn't quite as brash as _I'm thinking dirty thoughts_... actually, it was more like a press for Chris's dirty thoughts.

Chris is dimly shocked. It's almost too strange to conceive of Chord wanting to do this after spending hours floundering and sweating and re-learning how to dance – milling with Kevin and Darren – dripping water down his chin and onto the floor from his water bottle – flailing at Zach's command. They're both tired past the bouts of giggles and shakes and the need for caffeine. On the heels of a huge workday that was burdened with the nerves of actually seeing Chord in person, spending several hours in the same space as him, and after weeks of just pictures of food, it's completely unexpected. Chord is aware that he's going to be seeing Chris tomorrow, right?

Chris taps something else out quickly, sort of hoping it comes off flippant.

_BTW, if you're having trouble sleeping, you could always try jerking off. ;)_

After a few moments, Chord's reply comes. _u think i should?_

_I don't know. Are you too tired to get it up?_

_not too tired for u_

_For me? :)_

_u want me to right?_ A moment later: _u want to see me?_

Chris's heart staggers in his chest. This? Now? After today? Petulantly, he says, _You know I want to... freaking tease._

 _wow, u just saw me on set!!_ Chord says.

 _Yes, and don't think I didn't notice your choice of activewear_ , Chris fires back. 

Chord's response is either ignorant or telling.

_:)_

_What are you wearing now? Those basketball shorts?_ Chris asks, although he's left still puzzling over whether Chord wearing those shorts was purposeful or not.

_boxers_

_Is that all?_ he presses.

There's a pause just long enough for Chris to look up blankly at the wall across from his bed and mutter, "I'm really doing this again. Oh, God help me. I'm going to regret this."

He sighs tightly as his phone buzzes with Chord's response and finally shuts his laptop, ashamed of how eager his movements are as he ditches it beside his bed and rolls to turn his lamp off. Karmically speaking, it'd serve him right if Chord's brain just gave up mid-sentence and he dropped off to that dream land he mentioned, leaving Chris in the dark, clutching his phone, waiting.

Instead, he gets a picture.

His heart actually seems to skip a beat, if not several, becoming immobile enough in his chest to make it feel like his body may well be shutting down its major functions as he accesses the picture. A tiny eternity later, the pic loads, snapping to life on the screen, and Chris's heart lifts, drops, and does a weird trapeze flip under his ribs, his own shock actually tingling in his fingers.

In the dark, the only light coming from the screen of his phone, the picture shows up bright and detailed: abs, the delicate poke of a navel, white thigh-hugging boxer-briefs slung so low the delicate but pixelated line of Chord's happy tail looks a mile long, and Chord's legs kicked out from under his blanket. They stretch down his bed, feet blurry in the distance, but the focus of the picture is clearly just – dick, bulging the white cotton in an obvious arc, tugged up underneath it so its head is pointing right at Chris. His boxers are barely managing to cover it, the waistband lifted gently off Chord's skin where the tip is poking at it. It looks like it's going to just pop right out if any muscle in Chord's body so much as twitches, and the cotton's just clingy enough to show off the dent that shapes the full, flushed head of Chord's cock.

It's unreal; his mind doesn't even want to process it as actual. Chris's thoughts automatically default to a chorus of: _This can't be real. That's not Chord. Chord's not actually sending me this._

But it is Chord. After an embarrassing amount of time staring at those mirror self-portraits, he'd recognize those abs and the cut curves of obliques anywhere – and, weirdly, he recognizes the somewhat duck-footed splay of Chord's legs and feet, of all things.

In a fit of panic, Chris's first move is to reflexively yank up the menu with the delete option, because this is so wrong, the feeling is overwhelming and moves him like a puppet. The only other time he's felt like this was at the Golden Globes, in shock as he tripped over every single person and table in the entire room (in his mind, anyway), making his way up to the stage. There's just no way he should be feeling like this – 

He freezes just in time, thumb jumping away from the delete button because what the fuck is he thinking? As if getting rid of it will erase the fact that Chord sent it and it traveled through some cell tower to Chris's phone? He won't have it to stare at anymore. He'll delete it later. Not right this instant. Then he lapses into staring, the angle and subject both so personal he cannot believe Chord actually took a picture like this in the first place.

Chris's phone buzzes hotly in his sweaty hands.

_thats all_

_Is tht you_ , Chris manages to type back in a daze. He barely remembers how to type.

 _yes, all me_ , says Chord. He quickly adds, _u better not tweet it, took it just for u_

"EXCUSE YOU????" is what Chris wants to text back. It seems to accurately convey his feelings. Instead, he groans loudly to nothing and no one, breathes, "Fuck, this is not happening," and types the dumbest thing ever.

_Wow I hate you._

_do u really?_ Chord asks; he's either legitimately wondering or he's just teasing, and Chris has no idea which, but he continues, _dont u like my dick Chris?_

Heat zings almost painfully across Chris's cheeks. As bold and reckless as he's always been, Chord's never actually typed his name out to him before. Just seeing it makes everything so intimate all of a sudden. Chord isn't texting just anybody like this. The incongruous capital C even makes it look like Chord actually thought his name specifically, putting it there on purpose and taking that extra second to bother to capitalize it, and it cuts to the quick.

_Holy shit yes._

_thought u would enjoy. pretty boned now. what do u think? should i touch my hard dick?_

Okay, Chris is going to pass out and probably never manage to regain consciousness again. Every bit of feeling in his body is split between his throbbing heart, his aching hard-on, and the frustrated but exhilarated way his hands have become numb and stupid as they try to type on the world's smallest keypad.

 _Hm! It's so big in those boxers, I assumed you'd started the party without me_ , he says, after he fixes multiple typos in an attempt to appear calm.

_no im bigger than that now, just started to get it up when i took that pic_

_Good lord. #NotRemotelyHumbleBrag_

_should i get naked? or just take it out for u?_

_Just take it out_ , Chris returns, suckered pretty hard by Chord casually involving him like that. Screw modesty and ethics and not being too upfront. If they're doing this, they're doing this. _I wanna see you hitch the front of those boxers down and play with that big hot dick._

Chord takes a minute to reply, and Chris shamefully can't outlast the pause. He's shoving his hand under his pajama pants and into his underwear, abandoning the shame as soon as he gets his fingers wrapped around his cock. He's so hard it makes him let out a hoarse little shout in the darkness just to actually touch himself, and he's minorly aware of himself cussing under his breath he jerks his dick intently. It's like he's instantly on the slimmest edge of orgasm, everything in him split open to naked nerves and so ready, underwear wet where he's been dripping into it. Only the buzz of his phone keeps him from succumbing to the world's most premature ejaculation.

_feels so good wannacum_

Chris lets out a wild puff of breath. He can just imagine Chord fumbling around trying to get that on the screen with one hand – just like him. It's crazy to think they're feeling the same thing right now. Granted, it's not sex, but in a way it feels like they're sharing something on some other level. He has to unhand himself so he can respond at all.

_So fast?_

_yeah_

A few beats.

_im close_

_Slow down, big boy! I'm not through looking at u..._

Chord's response comes like stuttering gasps.

_please_

_gonna_

_Guess you can't keep from cumming when you get off on being a cocktease so damn much_ , Chris sends to Chord, sly.

He gets a few more lurching replies.

_fuck_

_tryin not to!_

_shit!!!_

_It really got you going to send me a pic, huh?_

_you get me so hard figured u should see_

_Ditto, tease._

_r u hard?_

_Hell yeah_ , Chris says. His belly winces with the mixed vulnerability and daring of saying so; it's been a while, and he knows he's said all kinds of crazy stuff to Chord, getting pushed and pushing him back, but they never saw each other afterward, so he's never had to really live with himself in the reality of it. Realizing day two of dance rehearsal will put him right in front of Chord tomorrow strips away any sense of safety. He doesn't want Chord to know him like this – but Chord does, and it's scary even though he knows Chord in this way, too.

_u gonna jack off w me? don't leave me alone!!!_

_I'll jack it with you if you want me to_ , Chris tells him loftily, like he isn't leaking steadily into his underwear and didn't almost blow his wad the second he touched himself.

Chord says, unexpectedly, _id be sad if u didn't_

Chris's brows tick up.

_Well, I don't want u to be sad. Maybe I'll join u..._

_yeah!!! please :)_

"You went there," Chris breathes in utter delight.

_There u go acting all polite, rude boy._

_im so fuckin polite_ , Chord says, and it sounds so serious that Chris laughs, low and smug and almost mean, wiggling.

_It's so considerate of u to ask me so nicely!_

_u really like good manners huh!?_

_I do. I especially like it when I can tell you really mean it and you totally wish I'd come over and stare at you handling that big cock, reach out and jack it for you 'cause I can't resist it..._

Chord falls right into that little trap.

_please then?_

_That's exactly what I like. :) So polite._

Texts tumble to him in spurts.

_please_

_please?_

_please Chris!!_

_omg please Chris_

_gonna cum_

Watching the texts appear one by one, Chris can practically hear the choppy words panted in Chord's voice, fresh in his brain from dance rehearsal. He can imagine Chord's long arm jerking, frustration mounting, the pauses that leave him desperate when has to slow or even stop to send a text. He can even almost picture the length of Chord's body draped across his bed, since he has an _actual_ fucking picture to help him along, and it's so hot, Chris's body strains upon his own mattress, buzzing and so alive and lit up and high. He never gets this hard when he pokes around on XTube. He never just drools precome ceaselessly jerking off on his own, even if he's blatantly thinking about Chord's infuriating tendency towards pseudo-exhibitionism or mentally clenching at the memory of Chord saying it was the hottest thing he'd ever heard that Chris had been naked and hard and waiting for Chord to text him back.

When a few too many long beats finally pass by without another glorious little plea, Chris drops his phone, sticks his hand down his pants and just barely holds them up from his waist with the other, and jerks off furiously for all of four seconds before he's coming, hot-wired, right up his belly. The bottom of his t-shirt gets creamed, and forget his pajamas and underwear. He just sacrifices them to the night, coming in them and striping himself with hot spunk, mind insistent on the fact that Chord's doing the same.

Chris can pretty much feel his body thump gently against the mattress when he comes down again, like a literal drop. Maybe he slumps. Whatever; he just lets the elastic waistband of his pajamas and boxers snap back to his belly, soaking in the warmth of his own jizz and slowly wetting right through his pajama pants.

There's nothing like the deep satiated stillness that holds his body after he does this with Chord. He's performed to sold-out arenas, won awards, written his own movie, written a novel. Met Oprah. Met the president. Been awed and humbled and excited and sick with nerves. But nothing, not even sleep, stills and fills him like this. He lets himself mentally drop everything, becoming nobody. Just a guy panting in the dark, blown away. After a minute, he grasps for his phone.

 _That was fast_ , he says, but it's not arch or judging or even casual joking; he came fast, too. He adds: _:)_

Chris's body moves for him, then, squirming warm, loosened muscles out of his pajamas and cleaning himself up blindly with a clean, dry area of fabric. His sigh as he peels off his t-shirt is bone-deep and satisfied. He's naked, now, bedding soft and warm under his bare ass, and even though he never sleeps naked or leaves dirty laundry anywhere, he just tosses his soiled pants... somewhere... and rolls onto his stomach, body humming and heavy, and drops off.

 

*

 

The next morning, Chris honestly hasn't slept enough, but the quality of sleep was so high that he feels amazing and sails to work, singing the whole way there.

All that tension from yesterday is just gone. It doesn't even matter that Chord never texted him back; Chris can safely assume that they both succumbed hardcore to the double-whammy of exhaustion and whatever hormone it is that makes guys want to take a nap after they go at it. He knows Chord had to be incredibly exhausted.

Chris couldn't be in a more different headspace than he was yesterday; he's mentally energized, and if Chord was still willing (not just willing, but eager) to text him all that even after hours of sharing rehearsal space with Chris, then they don't have to worry about being around each other again being too weird to handle, do they? Seriously, why was he nervous?

Chris is stretching in his habitual corner, fingertips tucked under the toes of his sneakers, when Chord comes in, phone in one hand and water bottle in the other, mouth stuck thoughtfully to one side.

Yesterday, Chris would've stared at the floor and tried to escape in his own brain, thinking about asylums or Goldilocks or taxes or literally anything other than Chord, but today, he gazes casually in the mirror, using it to watch Chord drift at random across the floor. His attentions are fixed on his phone. He's wearing different shorts, gray but still that stretchy, roomy sports mesh that Chris is close to gaining a fetish for, and a plain white tee, a backwards ballcap that looks insanely douchey, and Nikes.

Chris sticks his tongue out pleasurably. He knows what Chord's been doing with that phone, and nobody knows but the two of them. No one would ever suspect, he thinks. Not ever.

After a moment, Chord looks up from his phone and slides it automatically into his pocket, looking around blearily. It's inevitable, him spotting Chris watching him from the corner. Chris straightens up slowly, a helpless smile spreading on his face as their eyes meet in the mirror. It turns into a smirk as Chord drops his water bottle. It just slips from his fingers out of nowhere, and his fumble for it is so delayed that he just winds up making it bounce and roll away from him in a wide arc across the scuffed floor.

"And Chord is not awake yet," Zach notes loudly from across the studio.

Smiling, Chris palms the wall and gathers his ankle and pulls it up towards his butt, stretching his quadriceps calmly.

"No, I'm not awake yet at all," Chord responds, laughing thickly as he retrieves his bottle from the floor.

Chris watches his fingers twist at the white bottle cap and cannot help himself. He just can't. He asks, angelically as you please, "Did you get some good sleep, Chord?"

"I – yeah," Chord says, glancing at Chris for only a split second. Chris watches his face – watches his eyes dart away and not seem to settle on anything as he stands there, fingers restlessly unscrewing the cap. He looks studiously casual, Chris notes with some satisfaction, except for the way he's stopped in his tracks completely.

Chris turns his face away, adopting an equally stoic expression and enjoying the tender ache of his thigh muscles, but with the entire wall in front of both him and Chord consisting of mirrors, it's easy to gaze casually into them and watch Chord gather himself by wandering, moseying a few feet this way and a few feet that way and lifting his water bottle up to his lips to take a tiny, unnecessary sip and then struggling to screw the cap back on. He looks like Chris felt yesterday.

Chris, however, heads merrily to the mini-trampoline to warm up on his kick splits.

Rehearsal starts early, as soon as the last stragglers are there, because every minute is a minute they actually desperately need for this insane set of choreography with several new or rusty participants, and they take it from the top to see what everyone remembers and what they don't. They have to stop not even a minute into "ABC."

Even though it's early, so early, Zach is not amused. "Okay, no. Don't do this to me, guys. This is the easiest part. You should know this by now. You too, band guys. You can do this. If you mess up, I don't want to see you stopping with a stupid look on your face. Do not stop, and remember to keep your lips moving unless it's a solo line. You guys have permission to be thinking about all these moves while you're dancing. The rest of you, no. I don't know what that was. Wake up, Chord Overstreet. Cory, you're fine. Damian, pick it up a little. You're like, half a beat off. Everybody get it together."

Everyone's shuffling back to their starting places automatically, knowing they're going to take it from the top. Chris exchanges a grin with Jenna as they line themselves up relative to each other.

"Now actually do it," Zach suggests, and it would seem like sarcasm from anyone but Zach.

This time, what with the light smacking upside the heads, everyone seems more alert, and they actually make it to the point where Chris is supposed to leapfrog over Harry. He winds up in a messy piggyback situation.

"Ugh, so close," Zach says as the music cuts off. "Remember, okay, that you have to use some real arm power. Harry can take it, don't worry about him. But you know what, Chris? You went home and slept on this, didn't you? I was a little worried about you yesterday. Not technically speaking. You got the steps. You just seemed off. Not today!"

Chris smiles importantly, getting a clap on the back from Harry behind him. Chris flexes an arm at him cartoonishly, a wordless indicator that he'll be pushing off Harry with all his strength.

"Chord, you're – sleep-walking. Wake up or I'll come up there and shake you awake."

At the end of the three-hour block the first rehearsal of the day, they're making it through "ABC" again and are onto ironing out "Control" kink by kink, and everyone is tired, but probably no one more so than Chord. Chord's shirt is damp and sticking to his skin, his hair ruffled up damp, and Chris doesn't have to be right next to him to see the beads of sweat rolling down his sideburn. Chris feels for him, especially knowing that Chord, like him, is running on about four hours of sleep. This really is among the most difficult and detailed choreography they've done, and his few months not dancing has obviously not done Chord any favors.

Zach has to let them go; PAs are waiting at the door for Darren and Cory.

"Everybody except Chord, we're done for now, but I'll see you after lunch for our second rehearsal. Bring your energy! Bring your 'A' game! Chord, I know you have more recording to do in twenty, and I can see you're really tired, but I just need you in stripper mode for a few."

Chris is pretty tired, too, and can't wait to slug back some water and go take a power nap in his trailer before he's called to his fitting, but that gets his attention.

He throws a glance over his shoulder and sees Chord pulling up his shirt to wipe his sweaty face with it, showing off a glimpse of stomach that's demure in comparison to the picture he sent Chris just a handful of hours ago.

Still unfairly hot, Chris complains to himself.

He goes to the corner where he left his stuff and starts gathering it up, looking automatically towards the mirror when Zach says, "Yeah, just go ahead and take the shirt off."

Chord's white tee gets pulled off, and Chris can see the tired, sweaty stripping from the side and from the front, thanks to the mirror. Chris remembers how unbelievably, annoyingly tight his body was circa _Rocky Horror Glee Show_ , but in a year, he's bulked up some. Still, his waist still manages to be tiny, particularly at the tuck of his navel. Chris had a totally different view of it last night, especially his taut belly with its grabbable grooves. 

"That's actually pretty close, right?" Zach asks a girl from wardrobe, stroking his chin.

"Yeah, well – these shorts are gonna be a lot shorter!" says the wardrobe girl with a laugh. She has some flimsy red fabric in her hands. "We've got a couple of different options, but it's going to depend on the movement of the dance as to whether we go a little tighter or a little looser..."

"Show her your move, Chord," Zach tells Chord, a teasing note in his voice.

"I haven't perfected it yet, but I'm working on it," Chord says, rocking his hips awkwardly. It really is the least coordinated thing Chris has ever seen in his life. Chord looks so tired that it takes him several seconds to rock into an actual body roll, and even that is kind of jank.

Zach bursts out laughing, arms crossing tight over his chest as if someone's actually tickling him. "That's so amazingly bad!"

Chord's pelvis grinds to a halt.

"Okay, so... just based on this, I'm going to go with the looser pair," the wardrobe girl says. "Can you fit in a stop at wardrobe after your studio session, Chord?"

"Sure."

"Oh my goodness. Keep working on it, buddy," Zach says, bracing, even though he's still laughing. "We'll get you there."

"I'm working on it," Chord repeats cooperatively, picking up his sweaty t-shirt from the floor with a grunt of effort.

He turns, and Chris is totally caught staring. Whoops.

"Hey," Chord says, ambling over. "You spying?"

"Nice move," Chris replies, grabbing his bag casually.

He jumps about a foot when Chord snaps his wet t-shirt right at him, actually flicking him in the side.

"Oh, hey, now – " Chris starts.

"How 'bout that move?" Chord asks, face glowing playfully. "You like some of that?"

Chris backs away. "That shirt is gross! I can smell your sweat!"

Grinning, Chord tries to thwap him with it again, but Chris hops out of the way.

"Don't you dare!" he yelps.

Chord comes after him with a burst of energy, and Chris winds up hauling ass out the doorway, yelling with laughter as Chord repeatedly tries to catch another hit with his sweaty tee.

 

*

 

Chris is in his trailer, drifting in and out of a nap. His brain is hyperactive; it always is. That's why he sleepwalks and his best friend is his Ambien. He can't really take one of those on set, so he just settles for the shards of time he can get between periods of wakeful thinking.

When his phone vibrates, he picks it up automatically.

_Did u like my stripper moves?_

Chord.

Chris, still at least a quarter asleep, types back, _Obviously!_

With Chris just drifting, daydreaming, it seems like no time at all till Chord replies.

_Saw u watching in the mirror_

_You caught me..._ Chris admits.

_It's a mirror, lol. It works both ways. Seeing ur face was distracting_

_Sorry_ , Chris says immediately. He's awake now – and also waking up to the fact that he spent a decent chunk of dance rehearsal doing what he was trying so valiantly not to do yesterday. He wasn't exactly moon-eyed, but there after rehearsal, he obviously hadn't been the most discreet ever, either. Thankful that at least no one with a Twitter was hanging around to capture him unawares, he quickly adds, _Don't worry, next time I'll let you gyrate in peace! ;)_

He's just starting to feel a little guilty when Chord sends him a picture.

Chris automatically moves to load it, guessing it's probably of Chord's lunch. He just got rid of all those, too...

But no.

It's of Chord, and he's holding his white iPhone up in front of his face, one corner of his mouth quirked visibly, and he is totally shirtless. The fact that he's using a mirror in his trailer's bathroom is obvious; Chris would know that somewhat triangular, cramped space with its crammed-in sink and off-white wallpaper anywhere; his is just a feet away. He huffs softly. It's a much, much closer shot than the ones Chord took in his bathroom at home. And that smile. Even though it's hidden, he can still see it.

The sheer difference between seeing Chord shirtless, sweaty, and pelvic-thrusting in the dance studio mirror while Zach didn't even try not to laugh and like this, in private, is strangely vast. By the white-piped red shorts Chris can just glimpse around his hip bones, Chord obviously just took this today, maybe before shuffling out of the bathroom and letting several wardrobe people fuss with the fit of these flimsy fucking things before getting Ryan's stamp of approval. He wonders if Chord is even wearing underwear. It sure doesn't look like it...

Chord follows up with a text: _my strip shorts!! u like?_

Somewhat beleaguered, Chris replies, _Show-off!_

 _this way u won't be tempted to sneak on set and watch filming!_ teases Chord.

 _I bet you'd enjoy that! Did u take this pic just for me?_ Chris asks.

_yeah just for u. so no tweeting! want one more!??_

_Hit me baby one more time :)_ , Chris responds.

Chord says, _later :)_

 _You are the hugest fucking tease, I swear_ , Chris grouses.

 

*

 

Later – much, much later, pushing two in the morning – Chord still hasn't followed up on his earlier flirty, smiley-laden teasing, and Chris sighs. Chord probably got caught up in late filming or studio politics, or maybe even just sat down and fell asleep somewhere after the past two exhausting days. But still, he's kind of disappointed. That's a lesson learned, he guesses. He can't get all hung up on this guy.

Not that he did nothing but dick around expectantly all evening. He put in work on his script, showered and shaved, asked his goldfish, "I really should date someone, shouldn't I?" and stalked cats on Petfinder while wearing his grandpa glasses. He wasn't waiting up, or anything...

He's sitting on the edge of his mattress, setting his alarm and thanking God (or in this case, the person who scheduled him to come in at 9 a.m.), when his phone vibrates right in his hand and makes him jump. He basically puts everything but Chord on silent these days, so he knows it's Chord before he even sees the message.

Chord's message window says, _4 u_

There's an attachment.

"Every time I think I'm out, he's gotta pull me back in," Chris mutters, accessing it.

Sincerely, legitimately, in all honesty, Chris is not expecting what he gets. If pressed, he might have guessed a teasing thumb in the waistband of those red shorts, or... if he was, like, incredibly lucky... a picture somewhat like the one Chord had sent him last night, flat on his back with a hard-on. But even then, he wouldn't really have guessed that with confidence.

He gets a dick pic.

Oh. My. God.

It's an actual fucking dick pic.

Yeah, okay, Chord is half covered, but still, Chris can actually see the root of it, buried in tawny pubes with that slender treasure trail crawling up towards his belly button, abs and cut hip bones visible before the picture cuts off, the white edge of an iPhone just visible in the corner. There's a pair of black basketball shorts around Chord's thighs, mesh shining and stretched, the waistband precariously sitting on the knob hiding it from Chris's eye. The shaft is so fat, he has to be hard. It's so insanely purposeful – and so close yet so far, and also already way more than he ever bargained for – that Chris wants to scream.

It takes him what feels like a cosmological decade to realize that Chord must've taken this in a full-length mirror. He's not in his bathroom, either at home or on set. Chris can't possibly look his fill, but he can't possibly see through that black mesh, either. It's just a massive tease.

Finally, he gets it together enough to get back into the message window and types, _You've got to be kiddingme Chord._

Shaking, Chris adds in a stack, _I mean omg, that is you right?_

The phone buzzes. _yeah, don't u recognize ur fave shorts?_

 _No it's not_ , Chris says dazedly.

_u don't believe me???_

_Would you really send me something so incriminating?_

_i do all the time. theyre called, text messages._

_true_ , Chris admits.

_should i take off the shorts Chris? i know u like em_

_I do, in fact, but I especially like what's under 'em_ , Chris fires back.

_i pushed em down 4 u so u can see whats under em!!_

_You in bed, or still standing in front of your mirror jerking off to your own reflection?_

_bed but if u like it standing so do i...._

A few seconds later, additional information pops up.

_u like the pic? cant help it, i get hard thinking bout u. love jerking off w u, just wanna show off for u, wish i could see u wtching me like in the studio, see ur face_

Chris finally gives in. _I want that too. U know I'd love to watch you show ur dick off to me._

_u wouldnt touch me?_

_I might if you begged, you little tease._

_i know u wanna get ur hands on my dick_ , Chord responds, challenged.

_Almost as bad as you want me to get my hands on it, big boy ;) I can see how ur dick got so hard thinking about letting me jerk u off! I would take it slow and make u beg with every stroke. A tease like u needs to be teased._

At that, Chord folds instantly. _iw ould beg u so hard please Chris_

 _U would beg me to touch u?_ Chris presses, grinning and falling back across his mattress.

_yes i know u would like it_

_I bet I would. I bet I'd love taking your big hard dick in hand after watching u all day in ur shorts, watching u getting off on the way I look at u, getting off sending me sexy pics of urself. I'd love to jack that cock till ur begging to cum and feel u shooting off in my hand. I'd love to feel ur cum, too. Bet it's so hot when ur cumming._

Chris's hand fights its way into his pajama pants. Then he thinks better of it, since his other pair is soiled in the hamper waiting for laundry day, and just shoves them down along with his boxers. The air clings at him when he tugs his shirt up and off, making his nipples peak sensitively.

With zero shame, he flips back to the picture Chord sent him _of his fucking dick_ stuck in his shorts, the biggest tease of all time, and unabashedly grabs his cock, not taking it slow at all – unlike the little picture he's been painting for Chord. God, if he did get his hands on Chord, he would make it last, but confronted with a picture, he just doesn't have the patience.

Staring at the visible stretch of Chord's dick and the outrageously personal-seeming shape of his sparse pubes, all Chris can think is that right now, Chord's hand is doing the same thing his is, and if past exchanges are anything to go by, he may very well be actually begging right then.

A minute later, his phone vibrates, and Chris clumsily taps back to the message window.

Another attachment. With his dick straining in his own fist, Chris opens it.

The picture is extremely blurry, but Chris can still tell exactly what it is, and he gasps, jizz just kind of exploding out his slit with the shock of it. Pulse after pulse covers his belly, the heat of his jizz hitting his skin making the picture of Chord's pectoral streaked with spunk seem even more intimate. Chris works himself ragged, down to his last thread, the last drop. It's so mind-blowingly good. In the heat of the moment, Chris actually thinks about taking a picture of his come and sending it back, which makes everything in him flare harshly and his cock ache as it tries to dribble out the tiniest little dribble of come, which just wells in his slit and never slides out. There's no way he could ever do that. Ever. Nope. His parents have him on Google Alert.

Hot air rushes out of him. His eyes drift shut. Chord probably wouldn't know what to think if Chris sent him a picture in return, anyway. Chris drops his cock right onto his wet belly and tosses his head to the side, eyelids heavy as he gazes at the picture Chord sent. 

After a minute, his phone, clenched in his hand, goes off.

_thats just for u too_

_The money shot? Why thank you ;)_

_everything :)_

_No worries_ , says Chris, figuring this is Chord's way of asking him not to tweet that picture, either. _I delete everything u send. All this is just between us. I would never tell a soul._

After a minute, Chord asks, _think i should delete?_

_You don't mean you keep our texts? That doesn't seem wise_

_ill delete all of it 2morrow after sleep_

_Why would you keep stuff like that? Doesn't Emma ever use ur phone?_

But again, Chris waits, futile; Chord doesn't ever answer; Chris is pretty sure Chord finally stumbled face-first into some desperately needed sleep. It's kind of flattering that taking pictures for Chris is a higher priority for Chord than getting rest. He mops himself with his discarded tee, grimacing and resolving to take another shower in the morning, and defers deleting Chord's pictures and texts till the morning, too.

 

*

 

The texts from Chord bear 6:22, 6:25, and 6:47 a.m. timestamps.

_no I got Emma her own iphone!!_

_Starting to feel dumb for not deleting ur texts sooner. Sorry I didn't think bout ur side but definitely don't want to betray ur trust. Just wanted to be able to look at em anytime. Deleting em right now!!!_

_there's a lot lol bummed to lose em. U are too awesome. Deff a great writer. Ur words totally "inspire" me whenever I see them. Hope u still want to keep texting me. Its 2 legit 2 quit!!_

Chris basks in his warm sheets for another minute before rolling out of bed and heading to his bathroom, padding nakedly.

Seems like things aren't really falling in on him like it's the end of times after all. This... arrangement, or whatever it is... seems like it could actually work. For how long, who knows – but isn't that the way everything goes? He smiles at himself in the bathroom mirror, his thick hair wild, and climbs into the shower, the back of his brain occupied with composing a reply.

It couldn't hurt to keep the door open, but for now, Chris inhales the smoke and stokes the fire.


End file.
